Three days.

  Three days since the ravens flew north carrying his message sealed in leather and marked with Leelinor's sigil. Three days of watching the sky for a reply that never came.

  Leeonir stood on the watchtower's edge, boots planted against wind that cut like drawn steel. Dawn bled pale over Itachi's cliffs, painting stone in shades of ash and rust. The southern valleys stretched below, folded and creased like old parchment. Somewhere out there, villages they had freed were rebuilding. Somewhere closer, enemies they couldn't see were planning the next strike.

  Behind him, boots scraped stone.

  "Three days," Saahag said.

  Leeonir didn't turn. "I know."

  "The council should have responded by now. Even if they're buried in crisis, Leelinor would send word. He always does."

  Leeonir's jaw tightened. His left hand, wrapped in leather and cloth, pulsed faintly beneath the bindings. He flexed his fingers once. The heat coiled beneath his skin like something waiting. "Unless he can't. Unless something has gone so wrong in the North that ravens are the least of their concerns."

  Saahag stepped beside him, close enough that her shoulder almost touched his. Her twin blades hung at her sides, silent and ready. "Or the message never arrived."

  "Joel sent his best rider. The bird made it. I have to believe that."

  "Belief doesn't change silence."

  Leeonir finally turned to face her. Her blue eyes were steady, unreadable in the gray light. She had a way of looking at him that felt like being measured not judged, just weighed. He wondered what she saw.

  "Then we fly north," he said. "Today. We find out why they haven't answered."

  Saahag nodded once. "Joel called a meeting. The commanders want to speak with you before you leave."

  "Now?"

  "Now."

  The hall was carved into the cliff face, walls smoothed by generations of hands. A long table of dark wood dominated the center, its surface scarred with knife marks and stained with spilled wine from celebrations Leeonir hadn't seen. Maps sprawled across it, corners weighted with stones. Torches burned in iron sconces, their smoke curling toward cracks in the ceiling where pale morning light filtered through.

  Joel stood at the head of the table, hands braced on wood. Around him, three commanders waited. Leeonir recognized their faces—veterans who had fought beside him during the liberation, who had bled and screamed and held the line when the world demanded they break.

  Mirela stood to Joel's right. Her gray hair was pulled into a tight braid, revealing a scar that split her left eyebrow and disappeared into her hairline. Her arms were crossed, posture rigid. She had flown for twenty years. Lost her husband to dragonfire. Kept flying.

  Tovar sat in a chair that groaned under his weight. His left leg, wooden from the knee down, was propped against the table. His hands, gnarled with age, rested on a cane carved with ravens in flight. His eyes, sharp as broken glass, tracked Leeonir's every movement.

  Sileen paced near the window. Young, maybe twenty-five, with restless energy that made her seem like she was always about to launch into the sky. Her fingers drummed against her thigh, impatient.

  Louren leaned against the far wall, arms crossed, face unreadable. Saahag took position near the door.

  Joel looked up as Leeonir approached. "Thank you for coming."

  "What did you find?" Leeonir asked, stepping to the table.

  Joel's hand moved across the map, tracing lines drawn in charcoal. "We've had scouts in the air since dawn yesterday. Covering a hundred-mile radius north, east, and west."

  "And?"

  Mirela's voice was rough, scraped raw by decades of wind and smoke. "Nothing. The ogre warbands that marched north three days ago—gone. Not scattered. Not hiding in valleys. Gone."

  Louren straightened. "An army doesn't just vanish."

  Sileen stopped pacing and jabbed a finger at the map. "We found their last position here. Twenty miles northeast. Tracks led to a clearing ringed by stones. Then..." She dragged her finger across blank parchment. "Stopped."

  Saahag's eyes narrowed. "Stopped how?"

  Tovar's voice rumbled like distant thunder. "As if they stepped off the edge of the world. No continuation. No divergence. The earth itself simply ceased to record their passage."

  Leeonir's breath slowed. His mind turned over possibilities, discarding each one until only the worst remained. "Portals."

  The word settled over the room like a shroud.

  Joel nodded slowly. "That's what we think. The same magic Nakar used when he pulled Mowee through that tear in the air. But this time... it wasn't one person. It was hundreds. Maybe a thousand."

  Leeonir closed his eyes. His hands pressed flat against the table. "They can move entire battalions without leaving trace. Without roads. Without supply lines."

  "Which means they can strike anywhere," Saahag said quietly. "Anytime."

  Louren's fist slammed into the wall. The sound cracked through the hall like a whip. "Then we hunt the portals. Find where they open. Destroy whatever creates them."

  Tovar shook his head, slow and deliberate. "You cannot hunt what you cannot see, boy. These portals open and close in heartbeats. By the time a scout reaches the site, there is only empty air and the memory of footprints."

  Leeonir opened his eyes. His voice was low, controlled, but something cold threaded through it. "Then we've been fighting shadows. Every battle we win, they simply... step away. Regroup elsewhere. Strike where we aren't."

  Joel's gaze was steady. "That's why Itachi mattered so much. With the ravens free, we can at least see them coming. Warn the villages. Give people time to run."

  Mirela's jaw tightened. "Running is not victory."

  "No," Joel said, looking at her. "But it's survival. And survival buys time for someone else to find the real fight."

  Silence settled over the table. Leeonir's fingers traced the map, following roads and rivers, counting villages they had freed and villages that remained in chains. Fifteen. They had freed fifteen. How many more waited?

  "Keep the scouts flying," Leeonir said. "If you see movement—any movement—send word north. To Eldoria. To me. To anyone who will listen."

  "And if no one listens?" Sileen asked.

  Leeonir met her gaze. "Then the South fights alone. Like it always has."

  The afternoon sun was kinder than the morning. Warm light spilled across Itachi's rebuilt streets, catching on new thatch and freshly whitewashed walls. Children ran between houses, their laughter high and bright. An old woman sat on a stone step, mending cloth. A man hammered at a post, driving nails with steady rhythm.

  Leeonir walked through it with Louren at his side. Saahag followed a few paces back, silent as always.

  People turned as they passed. Some nodded. Others smiled. A few called out thanks in voices that still carried the rasp of smoke and fear. Louren kept his gaze forward, jaw tight, but Leeonir saw the way his shoulders tensed every time someone spoke.

  "They know your face," Leeonir said.

  Louren's voice was flat. "I just... fought. Same as you."

  "No. You stayed. You bled with them. That's different."

  A woman approached from a side street, a child's hand clutched in hers. The girl couldn't have been more than six, with tangled dark hair and eyes too large for her face. The woman stopped in front of Louren, hesitant.

  "You're the one who broke the chains on the eastern nest, aren't you?" she asked.

  Louren nodded once, uncertain. "I... yes."

  "My sister was in that nest. She told me how you fought three ogres alone to reach her."

  "I wasn't alone. There were—"

  The woman's hand lifted, cutting him off. Her smile was sad, tired. "She said you were. She said you fought like you had nothing left to lose. And because of that, she has everything left to live for." She paused. "Thank you."

  She turned and walked away, the child stumbling to keep up. Louren stood frozen, staring after them.

  Leeonir let the silence stretch. Then, quietly: "Fifteen villages, Louren. We've freed fifteen villages since we came south. You've been in every single fight."

  Louren's voice was barely audible. "I didn't count."

  "They did."

  They walked on. The streets opened into a small square where a well stood, its stones freshly repaired. A group of men worked nearby, hauling lumber for scaffolding. One of them saw Louren and raised a hand in salute. Louren returned it stiffly.

  When they reached the edge of the village, where the cliffs dropped away and the southern horizon stretched endless and broken, Louren stopped. He stared out at the valleys, at the roads that wound between them like old scars.

  "When I was a child," he said, "before the dragon came, my father used to tell me that a man's worth isn't measured by what he loses. It's measured by what he builds after."

  Leeonir waited.

  "I never believed him. Thought it was just... words. Something to make me feel better about being weak."

  "You're not weak."

  Louren turned to face him. His eyes were hard, clear. "I know. Not anymore." He paused. "I want to stay, Leeonir. Here. In the South."

  The words hung in the air like smoke.

  Leeonir's first instinct was refusal. They needed every blade. Every warrior who could still stand. The North was burning, and Eldoria's silence screamed of crisis. But he looked at Louren really looked and saw something he hadn't seen before.

  Purpose.

  "We need to return to Eldoria," Leeonir said carefully. "The council—"

  "Will have you. And Saahag. And a hundred other warriors stronger than me." Louren's voice was firm. "But the South? The South has fifteen villages that are free because we came. And a hundred more that are still in chains."

  "You'd fight alone?"

  Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

  "No. I'd fight with Joel. With the raven riders. With the people who actually want me here."

  Leeonir studied his face. The anger that had burned there for weeks… months was still present. But it had changed. Focused. Tempered into something sharper.

  "This isn't about revenge anymore, is it?"

  Louren shook his head. "No. It's about... belonging. For the first time since I watched my village burn, I feel like I'm part of something that matters. These people—" He gestured toward Itachi. "—they don't see me as the boy who survived. They see me as the man who fought for them."

  Saahag stepped forward. Her voice was quiet but certain. "He's right, you know. The South needs someone who will stay. Someone who won't leave when the capital calls."

  Leeonir looked between them. The weight of command pressed on his shoulders—the knowledge that every decision mattered, that every choice carried consequences he couldn't predict. But some decisions weren't his to make.

  "And if I order you to come north?"

  Louren met his gaze without flinching. "Then I'll disobey. Respectfully."

  A faint smile touched Leeonir's lips. "Ecos used to say that the mark of a good commander is knowing when to let his soldiers choose their own battles."

  "And?"

  Leeonir extended his hand. "Stay. Fight. Build something here. And when this war is over, I want to hear stories of what you became."

  Louren's grip was firm. Not a farewell. Recognition.

  "I'll send word if I find anything," Louren said. "Portals, armies, whatever's hiding in the dark."

  "And I'll send word when the North stops burning."

  They stood there, hands clasped, knowing the lie. The North wouldn't stop burning. Neither would the South. But hope was a weapon too. Sometimes the only one left.

  The launch platform jutted from the cliff like a broken tooth. Wood planks, weathered gray by wind and time, creaked under Leeonir's boots. Ravens perched on posts and beams, black shapes against the amber light of late afternoon. Their eyes tracked him as he moved sharp, intelligent, weighing.

  Joel was checking harnesses when Leeonir arrived. His hands moved with practiced efficiency, testing buckles and straps. Saahag stood nearby, inspecting their travel packs.

  Footsteps scraped behind them.

  An old man approached slowly, each step deliberate. His hair was white, thin as spider silk. His body curved forward, bent by age and loss. But his eyes were steady.

  Joel looked up. "Antenor. I didn't expect to see you here."

  Antenor's gaze moved past Joel and fixed on Leeonir. "I came to speak with the prince." His voice was rough but firm. "If he'll hear an old man's request."

  Leeonir turned, hand falling from the harness. "I'm no prince. Just a soldier. And I'll always hear you."

  Antenor stepped closer. The wind tugged at his threadbare cloak. Behind him, a raven larger than the others watched from her perch. Black feathers caught the light and threw back silver.

  "I lost my sons," Antenor said. "All three of them."

  The words fell like stones into still water.

  "Eldest died five years ago. Dragon fire in the northern hills. Middle son, two years past. Raiders burned his village while he tried to evacuate the children." His voice cracked slightly. "My youngest... three weeks ago. When the ogres took Itachi."

  Leeonir had no easy words. So he offered truth. "I'm sorry."

  "Sorry doesn't bring them back." Antenor's hand lifted, trembling slightly, and pointed at Leeonir. "But you—you broke the chains that held my people. You freed birds that my family tended for four generations. You gave us back our sky."

  The wind filled the silence between them.

  "I have no sons to pass Lua to. No daughters. No family left." He turned toward the raven behind him. "She's the last thing I have. And I can't... I can't leave her alone when I die."

  Joel straightened. "Antenor—"

  Antenor's hand rose, cutting him off. "Let me finish." He looked back at Leeonir. "You fight for people you don't know. You bleed for villages that aren't yours. You carry weight that would break men twice your age." He paused. "I want Lua to help you carry it. I want her to fly you north. To fight beside you. To be the wings you'll need when the ground falls away."

  Leeonir's gaze moved to the raven. Lua. She was massive—larger than any bird he had ever seen. Her wingspan had to be seven meters at least, maybe more. Black feathers rippled in the wind, edges catching light and reflecting it back like polished silver. Her eyes were pale gray, almost white. Old eyes. Knowing eyes.

  "This is..." Leeonir's throat tightened. "I can't take what you have left."

  "You're not taking. I'm giving. There's a difference." Antenor's voice hardened. "My sons died fighting monsters. I'm too old to fight. But Lua isn't. And neither are you. So take her. Fly her. And kill every last bastard who took my boys from me."

  Joel stepped forward. "The bond is sacred, Antenor. Once it's transferred, it can't be undone. Lua will follow him. Not you."

  Antenor looked at the raven. Something passed between them memory, grief, love worn smooth by years. "I know." His voice softened. "I've had forty years with her. Watched her hatch from an egg no bigger than my fist. Taught her to fly. Rode her into storms and battles and across mountains I can't even name anymore."

  He paused. His hands shook.

  "Forty years is enough. Now she needs a rider who has forty more ahead of him."

  Joel turned to Leeonir. "If you accept, the ritual binds you. Lua will answer to you. Protect you. Fight for you. But you'll carry responsibility for her life. Her fate becomes yours."

  Leeonir looked at Lua. The raven tilted her head, studying him with those pale eyes. "I've never flown before."

  Antenor's laugh was dry, brittle. "Neither had I, the first time. Lua will teach you. She always does."

  Silence stretched. Wind howled through the canyon below. Leeonir felt the weight of the moment pressing down not just the bond, but what it meant. Antenor was offering the last thing he loved. The last piece of his family. And he was trusting Leeonir not to waste it.

  "I accept," Leeonir said.

  Joel moved to the center of the platform. Other riders had gathered at the edges, forming a loose circle. Their faces were solemn. This was sacred ground.

  "The bond is blood and breath," Joel said. "First, the old rider releases. Then the bird chooses. Then the new rider seals it."

  Antenor walked toward Lua. Each step was slow, deliberate. When he reached her, his hands rose and touched her feathers. She lowered her head, and he rested his palm against the side of her neck.

  "Forty years, old girl," he whispered. His voice carried in the stillness. "Forty years you carried me. Through ice and fire. Through joy and grief."

  His hands trembled.

  "You carried my sons when they were too small to walk. You carried their bodies when..." His voice broke.

  He stopped. Breathed. Steadied himself.

  "You've been faithful. Gods, you've been faithful. But I'm old. And he's young. And this world needs young wings more than old bones."

  Antenor pressed his forehead against Lua's. The raven went still. Around them, the other birds fell silent. Even the wind seemed to pause.

  "Fly for him like you flew for me," Antenor whispered. "Protect him like you protected my boys. And when this is over, when the monsters are dead and the sky is clean again... rest. You've earned it."

  Lua made a sound low, soft, not a caw but something gentler. A keening that carried loss and understanding in equal measure.

  Antenor stepped back. Tears ran down his weathered face, but he didn't wipe them away. He moved three paces backward and stopped.

  Lua lifted her head. She looked at Antenor for a long moment. Then her gaze shifted to Leeonir.

  She studied him. Those pale gray eyes seemed to see past armor and skin, down to bone and intent. Leeonir held still, barely breathing.

  Lua took one step forward. Then another. Then a third.

  She stopped in front of Leeonir, head level with his chest.

  Joel exhaled. "She chose. Now you seal it."

  Leeonir pulled a small knife from his belt. The blade was clean, sharp. He pressed it to his right palm and drew it across in one smooth motion. Blood welled, bright and hot.

  He extended his hand. Lua didn't move.

  Leeonir touched her beak with his bloodied palm. The surface was cold, hard as polished stone. Blood smeared across black keratin. Lua's eyes closed.

  Leeonir leaned forward. He pressed his forehead against hers.

  Heat.

  It started in his chest and spread outward like water poured into still air. He felt Lua's heartbeat slower than his, steadier, ancient. Images flickered behind his eyes. Not his memories. Hers.

  Soaring through storm clouds. Diving toward earth. Antenor's young face, laughing. Three boys, small hands tangled in feathers. Fire. Screaming. Loss.

  Then the images stopped. And in their place, something else settled. A presence. Not a voice. Not a thought. Just... awareness. Lua was there. In his mind. Distant but real. Like a second shadow.

  He opened his eyes. Lua opened hers.

  Joel's voice was quiet. "It's done."

  Lua stepped back. She lowered her body, shoulders dropping, back leveling. Her wings spread slightly. An invitation.

  "She wants you to fly," Saahag said softly.

  Leeonir looked at Antenor. The old man nodded. "She'll catch you if you fall. She always has. Trust her."

  "I don't know how to—"

  "Neither did I. Forty years ago, I climbed on her back terrified I'd die. I didn't. You won't either." Antenor's voice was firm. "Grip the feathers at her neck. Lean forward when she climbs. Lean back when she dives. The rest... she'll teach you."

  Leeonir moved to Lua's side. Joel stepped forward and cupped his hands. Leeonir placed his boot in them and pushed up. He swung his leg over Lua's back, settling between her shoulders. The feathers beneath him were thick, layered, softer than he expected but strong as woven rope.

  He gripped the feathers at her neck with both hands. His heart hammered.

  Lua shifted beneath him. She turned her head slightly, one pale eye looking back at him. Then she faced forward.

  Three running steps. The platform blurred. Leeonir's stomach lurched.

  Lua leaped. The ground dropped away.

  Wind hit him like a wall. His eyes watered instantly. His hands tightened in her feathers until his knuckles burned white. Lua's wings beat one, two, three each stroke a drumbeat that vibrated through his entire body.

  Up. They climbed.

  The cold was instant. Vicious. It bit through his cloak and found skin. His lungs ached with each breath the air thinner, sharper. Below, Itachi shrank. The platform became a dot. The people, ants.

  Lua banked left.

  Leeonir's weight shifted. Instinct screamed to let go, to grab tighter, to do something. But there was nothing to do except trust. So he leaned with the turn, the way Antenor had said. And Lua steadied.

  They climbed higher. The sun, low on the horizon, painted the clouds gold and red. Beneath them, the southern valleys spread like a crumpled map villages, rivers, forests reduced to stitches of thread.

  Lua leveled out. Her wings stretched wide, catching wind. They glided. Silent. Effortless.

  Leeonir's breath slowed. His hands loosened slightly. He could feel her. Not just her body. Her mind. The way she read the wind. The way she adjusted wings for currents he couldn't see. She was teaching him. Without words.

  For the first time in weeks maybe, months Leeonir felt something other than weight.

  Not joy. Not exactly. But... lightness. The ground, with all its blood and failure and endless marching, was far below. Up here, there was only wind and sky and the steady beat of Lua's wings.

  He understood, suddenly, why Antenor had wept. This wasn't just flight. It was freedom. And he was sharing something sacred.

  Lua tucked her wings. They dropped.

  Leeonir's stomach flipped. A shout tore from his throat—half terror, half exhilaration. The wind shrieked past. The ground rushed up. He leaned back instinctively, and Lua responded, wings snapping open like sails catching gale.

  They leveled twenty feet above the treetops, skimming so close Leeonir could smell pine.

  Then she climbed again. Effortless. Powerful.

  Lua circled back toward the platform. Leeonir could see them now Joel, Saahag, the riders. Antenor, small and alone, watching.

  Lua descended in a smooth spiral. Her talons reached for wood. Contact. Gentle.

  They landed. Leeonir slid from her back. His legs trembled. His hands were still clenched, muscles locked. He forced them open.

  Saahag stepped forward, a rare smile touching her lips. "You're alive."

  Leeonir's laugh was shaky. "Barely."

  Joel nodded. "The first flight is always the hardest. After that, it's just... flying."

  Leeonir turned to Antenor. The old man stood at the edge of the circle, arms at his sides. His face was calm now. Resigned. Ready.

  "I don't have words for what you've given me," Leeonir said.

  Antenor's voice was firm. "Then don't give me words. Give me action." He paused. "Fly north. Find the monsters who took my sons. And make them pay in blood and fire."

  "I will. I swear it."

  "Good." Antenor looked at Lua one last time. "Take care of him, old girl. He's going to need you."

  Lua beat her wings once. A response. Antenor turned and walked away. He didn't look back.

  Morning came cold and clear. The sky was pale, washed clean by wind. Leeonir stood on the platform, checking Lua's harness. Saahag secured their packs, tying them to the reinforced straps Joel had provided.

  Louren approached, hands in his pockets. His face was unreadable.

  "When you see Luucner," he said, "tell him I'm not running. I'm fighting. Just... on a different front."

  Leeonir nodded. "I will."

  Louren extended his hand. "And when this is over, I want to hear stories of what you became too."

  They clasped hands. Not a farewell. A promise.

  Joel stood near his own raven a massive bird with scarred wings and eyes like amber. Beside him, Mirela was checking her saddle straps with practiced efficiency. Her raven was smaller than Lua but leaner, built for speed and endurance.

  Tovar approached, leaning heavily on his cane. "You're leaving me with this mess, Joel?"

  Joel's mouth twitched. "You've handled worse. Sileen will coordinate the scouts. You handle strategy. Between the two of you, the South won't fall."

  "And if it does?"

  "Then we'll have bigger problems than pride." Joel's expression hardened. "Keep the birds flying. If you see portals opening, armies moving, anything send word north. Multiple birds. Different routes. Make sure at least one gets through."

  Tovar nodded slowly. "And you? Why go north when the fight's here?"

  "Because the Council needs to hear what we've seen. Not from a letter. From someone who stood in that clearing and watched a thousand ogres step into thin air." Joel's jaw tightened. "They need to understand what we're facing."

  Mirela stepped forward. Her voice was rough but steady. "And because someone needs to make sure Eldoria doesn't forget the South exists. We've bled enough down here in silence."

  Sileen appeared at the edge of the platform, breathless from running. "Scouts just returned. No movement on any front. It's like the enemy just... vanished."

  "They didn't vanish," Leeonir said quietly. "They're somewhere. Planning. And when they come back, it'll be worse."

  Joel mounted his raven in one smooth motion. The bird shifted under his weight, wings stretching in anticipation. Mirela swung onto her own mount, settling into the saddle like she'd been born there.

  Leeonir climbed onto Lua. Saahag settled behind him, hands finding the thick feathers at the base of Lua's wings.

  "Three birds," Joel said, looking at Leeonir. "We fly in formation. If one falls, the others keep going. The message reaches Eldoria no matter what."

  "Agreed."

  Tovar raised his cane in salute. "Fly well. Fight better. And don't you dare die before I do."

  Joel's laugh was short. "No promises, old man."

  Louren stepped to the edge of the platform. He looked at Leeonir one last time. No words. Just a nod. Recognition between warriors who had chosen different battles but the same war.

  Leeonir returned it.

  Lua took five running steps. Her wings spread seven meters of black and silver catching the morning light. Then she leaped. The platform fell away.

  To Leeonir's left, Joel's raven launched with a powerful beat of scarred wings. To his right, Mirela's bird shot forward like an arrow, faster and lighter than the others.

  Three ravens. Three riders. Flying north toward a capital that hadn't answered in three days. Below them, Itachi shrank. Louren stood at the edge, one hand raised not a wave, but a salute. Tovar leaned on his cane beside him. Sileen had already turned away, running toward the scout tower. The South was in their hands now.

  Leeonir faced forward. Wind tore at his face. Saahag's grip tightened behind him. Lua's wings beat steady and strong. Beside them, Joel and Mirela kept pace. Three shadows against pale sky.

  North waited. And silence from Eldoria meant only one thing. The real war had already begun.